


Full Circle

by Notabluemaia



Series: Homecoming [7]
Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cirith Ungol, Illustrations, M/M, Pre-Quest, Quest, Shire Ritual, The Shire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-15
Updated: 2005-11-15
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:44:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notabluemaia/pseuds/Notabluemaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Shire's warm circle of life offers comfort, but in the cold beyond, it seems there is only death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Full Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Sam’s poem is excerpted from ‘Flight from the Ford,’ _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , by J.R.R.Tolkien.

  


~***~

_Hold fast…_

_Don’t let loose. Not ever. Not yet._

_Steady, Samwise…_

A rock bit sharp beneath Sam’s knee. He shifted, lifted his head. Roiling clouds in a darkening sky. Sweat trickled across his brow, dripped hot upon clenched hands. White knuckled hands, clenched tight around what he could not let loose… not yet.

He closed his eyes and turned himself over to blackness; memory flared lightning bursts through a heated haze.

~***~

_Life to death to life._

_The promised circle of life…_  


A sharp-edged stone, missed by the harrows, bit into Sam’s knee; he shifted easily to kneel on the finely tilled soil in the centre of this winter-fallowed field. Roiling clouds threatened a spring storm and webbed lightning crackled in the east, but his weather wisdom agreed with that of the old plough-hobbits who waited up on the headland with horses, harrows, and drills: despite the sweep of wind that put them back almost in winter's grasp, the storm was no threat here. There was time and enough to begin the circle once more with autumn's ritual offering, and time for a good day's planting, too.

Sam’s hand clenched around what he could not let loose – three plump grains of wheat that Frodo had received in exchange for three parched hulls, blackened at Bag End’s hearth. Season after season, spring to autumn to spring, and this the first cycle they had weathered together. How many times before had Frodo kneeled at Bilbo’s side, and then alone, by himself in the middle of this very field; how many times had _he_ knelt beside his Gaffer? Families, passing tradition on and on.

“There, Sam, this is deep enough, is it not?” Frodo looked up from the hole he had made in the fine rich tilth; he sank back upon his heels, absently wiping mud onto his trousers.

“Aye, deep enough, and more'n enough for your poor hands. Here, dear.” Sam pulled his handkerchief from his coat pocket with his free hand and gave it to Frodo, who gave a cursory swipe to the dirt clinging to his shirtsleeves. “Are you ready for these?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Frodo nodded solemnly and took a deep breath. He pushed back wind-tangled curls with one still grimy hand and held out his other to Sam.

Sam placed the grains one by one upon his upturned palm.

“Seeds of the past for seed for the future.” Frodo closed his other hand over the seeds as he intoned the ritual words spoken every harvest festival and every spring planting, by every household’s eldest male.

One by one, Frodo picked each seed from his palm, touched it to his lips for benediction, then laid it in the furrow he had made. He smoothed moist black soil over the seeds.

“Through winter’s death to spring’s rebirth. May the seasons come full circle once again.”

He turned to Sam, then, and the rising wind flared through his hair, whipping it across his face. Sam reached to push back the tangles from his brow, and captured Frodo’s hand to press it against his cheek.

“May you take joy in the planting and all those to come.” Frodo’s smile promised love that grew and blossomed and came to fruition, again and again, as certain and true as the seasons. Plant, grow, harvest. A time to rest, and then replant. Grow in hope, harvest in gratitude. Full circle… the way things always had been. Always would be.

“Aye. Joy in the planting, for all those to come.” Sam raised Frodo’s stained hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to each, smiling back at blue eyes sparkling with life.

“My dear, my Sam… Home, now let us go home.”

Frodo squeezed Sam's hands and rose to his feet. Together they made their way over ridge and furrow to the plough-hobbits waiting to complete the sowing of seed. The quiet jingle of harness from the teams of sturdy horses greeted them, but the first words were Frodo's.

"Joy in the planting."

"Aye, thank you, Mr. Baggins, sir, and joy to you, too, sir." Already they were turning to take up the reins, eager to sow for the reaping to come.

And joy in the planting, they had… and sorrow, too: a cycle that turned like the seasons, till it turned no more…

~***~

_Outside the circle there is only death._

_Without ritual, there is only death._  


Blighted, barren, and nary a seed of hope.

_His hands. Such gentle hands. Cold…rough, and his nails broken, too, every one. And his hair… snarled so, fingers alone will never tease free the strands. But it needs doing. And I will do it... best I can._

Sam shifted, scrabbling for balance. Bone dry dirt clung like ash to sweaty palms. In memory he named his beloved dead… all of them, dead and mourned. So many… buried, beneath tall oaks, weathering within the circle of the seasons…

~***~

The sun sank red behind the trees, silhouetting the web of autumn leaves and branches reaching to the first stars. Dusk settled cool and moist over the festival field. In the middle, the bonfire flared to life as hobbit elders set torches to tinder beneath stacked logs. Children twirled and shrieked with giddy laughter, and early dancers, mostly tweens, linked arms and bobbed before the fire as fiddle and flute tuned then set a lively tempo to encourage haste with the final preparations for Harvest Festival’s Feast.

Goodwives called directions to husbands and sons hauling food for the coming Feast; long trestle tables were laden with fragrant loaves set before a basket of rippling wheat; jugs of cider and latticed pies alongside firm red apples; tureens of potato soup surrounded by rough brown potatoes and golden onions; mashed turnips and pickled beets by purple turnips and red beetroots; flaky tarts with toasted nuts, and a trug of this year's walnuts encased still in green and black hulls.

And everywhere, neighbours hailed each other with good cheer – and no little relief that they had not been chosen by the Reaper in last night’s Wilding. Sam took a deep breath, grateful that Frodo had not, either. But his time would come, and as Master, and head of any household Sam ever wanted, he would bear the burden of Sacrifice for both of them, though Sam would help any way he could— But here, he had let Frodo get too far ahead of him, on his own, and he hurried to follow close behind.

Frodo returned cordial nods to the warm greetings, but he kept his silence as he strode purposefully towards the edge of the field. His destination was obvious, and no one would expect a reply; there were matters too deep for light speech. From a respectful pace behind, Sam watched as hobbits turned quickly back to their business. Here, farmers compared the merits of soils and seeds that had brought this year’s success, ensuring survival through the hardest winter, with plenty left to plant in spring. There, strapping tweens jostled each other by the kegs of ale; by the mead, a few lads filled mugs for strong lasses with curls sleeked back, captured by bows.

Scattered conversations drifted to Sam’s ears as they passed; two older hobbits walking in the same direction seemed to be talking about the Reaper and the dark night before. That had plenty to do with Frodo, and that made it his business; Sam cast aside his good manners and listened more closely.

“… choice… Reaper…”

“…t’was a near miss for my eldest; and a relief it was, being it’s his first year in his own smial, with a new babe, too.”

“What made him think—”

“Said he heard footsteps hard on the trail behind him, but not a word when he called out. Didn’t know whether to stand and wait, or go on – you don’t want to shirk what’s come to you—”

Sam thought there weren't a bit of shame in wishing with all your heart that it would not, even though you'd do whatever you had to do.

“But it’s not something you _want_ , if you don’t have to.”

“Aye, we was all glad it weren’t his time. Nary a sign of the Reaper – turned out it were Sandyman, stumbling round in the dark. In his cups… tripping all over hisself…”

“And up to no good, I’d guess…”

“So I heard tell… Master… hurt … told Sandyman… stay put o’er yon… far side… field…”

Sam tensed and glanced at Frodo; he must have heard, loud as they’d been talking. Yes, he had – his jaw tightened, and he looked to Sam; his lips turned down as he gave the slightest shake of his head. He didn’t break his determined stride, but he fell back a step, alongside Sam, and his voice was low and calming, and for Sam’s ears alone.

“Leave it, Sam. The elders will take care of him. We have other matters to attend.”

“Aye, sir, but I can’t say what I’ll do if he _stumbles_ anywhere in my reach…” Sam glared about them, wishing that Sandyman would appear for the thrashing he deserved. But he would never start a scene, especially one that Frodo did not want.

“You already have done everything needed, Sam.” Frodo’s soft smile reminded Sam of all that they had done, together, and soothed him as nothing else could have. “Now we must do what we came to do.”

They made their way through the bustling preparations, across the wide field to the graveyard, marked by a towering oak tree, its clinging leaves clear as ink against the twilight sky. Ancient branches spread their canopy wide and low to touch the acorns strewn deep on the ground; black roots rippled through earth and moss; fallen leaves from seasons past sheltered burrowing mouse and sinuous worm, and blanketed the dead with every season’s life, growing from flesh and bone.

Beneath its boughs, the ceremonial tent for Sacrifice was small and round, painted with sheaves of wheat in indelible dyes. Before it, a hooded hobbit – Sam thought it might be the old postmaster from his childhood – who had served before as Sacrifice, sat on a carved oak bench flanked by torches. Within, the hobbit chosen as this year's Sacrifice would hear the litany of sorrows throughout the long evening, and share the heavy burden of grief, that those who mourned might again speak lightly, passing beyond death to celebrate life in the Dance.

If any besides the elders knew whom the Reaper had chosen, they would not say, for Sacrifice served not as himself, but for all. But Sam did recognise the other hobbits waiting in the shadows. A young couple, the Brookhills, were friends of his elder sisters. They’d lost a babe, stillborn on a cold winter day, though the goodwife, Bess, looked to be carrying again; their heartache no less, but surely hope and a blessing. And there, with her family, Widow Chubb, doubly grieved by the recent loss of both husband and grandson, their graves not yet hidden by moss and vines. And of course, his Frodo, fulfilling his duty as Master, and as friend.

Tension hummed through the waiting throng, blended with the distant strains of the fiddle’s call to the Dance. Sam's memories of loved ones here, and gone, struck a chord with celebrations swirling in the field behind them. The dead – his mother, grandparents, and the kith and kin of all the hobbits he knew – rested easy beneath these boughs, their bodies returned simply to the cradling roots of the earth. Tonight the living came to add their grief and the names of their dead to rolls long kept in every village and township. It had been many years since Sam had come here; tonight the burden was not his, but one he hoped to help Frodo bear. There was little enough that he could say or do, other than simply _being here_ at his side, but Frodo had smiled, his eyes dark as midnight around the harvest moon, and kissed him, and said he was glad that Sam would be with him, and it was enough…

Frodo seemed to withdraw further into himself as they waited in the rising moon’s glow. Worry and fatigue showed plain on his face, in furrowed brow and downcast eyes. Sam knew well that intent and inward look. Frodo was making himself ready to speak clearly enough to tell the truth – and a painful tale it was – while discreetly enough that no more hurt would flow from the telling. And if that was not burden enough… The dearest of Frodo’s own sprawling family – his blood kin, that was, for Sam himself was dearest of all – was never far from his thoughts. How long since there had been any news of his uncle, his last letter read and reread till its folds began to tear? How long would it be before Frodo’s faith began to crumble, and he finally believed that Bilbo had died, lost somewhere far from home? Frodo didn’t talk about it often – he would not, for it was not their way – but Sam knew he had wondered if _this_ year he must give up hope, share his grief with Sacrifice, and speak for his own beloved dead. It had to have been on his mind while he was away; even considering it must tear at his heart. Sam’s chest tightened, and he longed to take Frodo’s hand, to pull him close and wrap his arms around him, to comfort him with his body when words failed.

Sam took a deep breath. At least this was not Frodo's year for that – another thing for which to be grateful. This year Frodo would act as Master, in Bilbo’s stead, and fulfil his responsibilities for Bag End's tenants. One, a widower, had died of a sudden, leaving a lad too young to speak for him, and no other kin. A rarity among large hobbit clans – and a sorrow in itself – for childbirth had taken his wife, and hardship had shattered his family tree almost past healing.

It was a tale to break your heart, and a sorry mess, too. Frodo had been called late in the summer. He had travelled hard and fast, only to find a nasty dispute between the unfortunate mother's estranged kin, bickering viciously over the custody – and the comfortable inheritance – of the orphaned lad, whom none of them had so much as met.

Solicitors, and old entries from Bilbo’s journals, had helped resolve the matter, but Sam could imagine what it had cost Frodo to deal with such grasping, and what the lad’s plight would have recalled of his youth… and some of his ill-tempered kin. He had half an idea that Frodo might have used some of his own inheritance the sooner to settle the thing as best for the child, but he hadn't said, and surely would not mention it tonight, or ever. For that matter, he had not spoken much of the difficulties, and instead had wanted to hear news of Sam and all that had passed here and in the village whilst he was away; to see the garden, to read, write – simply to return to the life they shared. He’d tell what he needed to tell in his own good time, and Sam had patience enough and more for any wait that might help him—

“The time is come in which you may share your burden.”

The formal words broke loudly into Sam’s thoughts. The seated elder was beckoning them forward with a palsied hand. Sam turned his head to meet Frodo’s calm gaze, and the space between them hummed. He saw, more than heard, Frodo’s deep breath before he stepped forward. Sam followed and stood close at his shoulder.

"Share your sorrow that you may return to the Dance.”

Sam lifted aside the door flap for Frodo to precede him. Long forgotten memories wafted on the fragrant smoke from beeswax tapers set all around. He had not been here since his mother died, when he came with his family, and saw it all through tears... and now, that grief was as fresh as yesterday in his heart, and seemed closer than it had in all the years since it had been shared, right here – but he was no longer a bairn, and Frodo was far more than Master now, and he needed him. Sam blinked hard, and brushed at his eyes at the ancient and unvarying words.

“Outside the circle there is only death.  
Without ritual, there is only death.  
No dance, no dancers.  
Only death."

Sacrifice was seated in a high-backed oak chair beside a table and benches; carved leaves seemed to grow from the grain. He was robed in coarse, unbleached flax, and upon his lap he held a wooden mortar and pestle, its bowl black with ash ground fine from scorched grains of wheat exchanged the night before. Sam could just make out the reflection from eyes shining deep within the cowl, but he could not tell who it was, and respectfully, he did not try.

“Welcome. Who are you, and for whom do you speak?” The voice quavered with age, but was warm, and sounded kind.

“I am Frodo Baggins, Master of Bag End, and Samwise Gamgee stands with me. I have come to tell the death of my tenant Reginald Harbrace, formerly of Hobbiton, whose only living family is a son too young to speak for him.”

“Will you speak for the dead, Frodo Baggins?”

“I will.”

“Can you place this death upon his Family’s Tree of Life?” Sacrifice gestured to the table, upon which tall tapers illuminated thick sheets of curling vellum piled high.

“Yes, I can.”

“Please do so, for him, and for us all.”

Frodo leaned over the table, bracing himself with one hand, to study the carefully inked genealogies spread before him. The top page was covered by an intricate tree whose spreading branches and twining roots were inscribed with names and dates in many hands; Sam could glimpse an entire forest of trees on the brown edges protruding below. Frodo set aside page after page, looking for the one on which he must write. He hesitated, compared two, held one closer to the candle to read a name, then laid it on the table before him. Carefully, he traced along the branches, making sure that he had found where this latest leaf had fallen. Marking the spot with one finger, Frodo looked up, frowning.

  
[](http://www.flickr.com/photos/40685603@N00/255310149/)   
_Mark His Passing_  


“This is the place. But the birth of his young son is not written here, nor is the death date for his wife. May I add them to their family’s Tree?”

“It is a sadness for a branch to be broken or incomplete. Can you record truly?”

“I can, although I cannot speak for her, as I did not know her. Her name was spoken, and recorded, in the village of her birth.”

“Mark the truth that you know.”

From an assortment of quills lying to the side, Frodo chose a shining raven feather, its tip trimmed to a fine nib – how many times had he watched Frodo choose, harden, and trim just such a one for its delicate line – and dipped it into the squat inkwell. The plume danced over the page to the sharp scratching of the nib across silence as Frodo completed his task with care.

“Please be seated.”

Frodo sank gracefully – and gratefully, to Sam’s eye – upon an oak bench, its flaxen cushions embroidered with wheat sheaves that shimmered in the warm candlelight. Sam sat across from him.

“Speak now, that all may share your sorrow.”

And Frodo spoke, his voice clear and strong, of friendship that had continued long past his tenant’s move, of a family tree shattered by misfortunes. He spoke of a hobbit who loved, and tried, and suffered, and was mourned. He spoke of a life, and a son who would carry that life into the future. Much remained unsaid but truth was in every word that was spoken.

Frodo was the still centre of all Sam’s awareness. His words spilled over, around, and through Sam as he let himself drift upon the music of his beloved’s soft voice. And now Frodo had completed the telling, and he fell silent, his hands folded and still upon his lap. The night wind soughed through the trees outside the tent, and their breathing was the only sound within.

Sacrifice held forth the mortar and inclined his head toward it.

“Death has come, will come again, and life goes ever on."

“Death to life, and ever on.” Frodo returned his bow with the ritual response. He set his hand to his sleeve and pushed back his crisp linen shirt cuffs. Slowly, he touched his fingers to the ash, and smeared a black print upon the pulse point of each wrist. Sam’s breath hissed sharply – his mam had been laid out with the ash daubing her into the grave, just so – and sudden fear clenched in his breast. These marks of death on Frodo’s fair skin were difficult to watch. Brusquely, he daubed the powdery ash on himself, bowed deeply, and looked up to find Frodo frowning, his eyes glimmering unexpectedly bright. No, it was no easier for him to see those smudged stains on Sam’s wrists than it had been for Sam, for he'd have memories of his own.

But now, it was done. It was time to return to the life of the Shire, to take their places in the Dance, to watch the Master of Bag End bow and dip through ritual steps that by custom he would lead; Sam would catch Frodo’s eyes as he was swept past, and their smiles would promise all the bounty that hands, body, and heart could give… again, as they had shared before.

~***~

_Outside the circle there is only death._

_Without ritual, there is only death._

_No dance, no dancers._

_Only death..._  


Who can speak for the dead when there is no one left to tell? Ritual only goes so far… Where are the words for a love beyond what words can tell?

_Life to death to life._

_Death to life, and ever on,_

_A circle, and a promise._

~***~

  
[ ](http://photobucket.com)   
_The Unread Book_   


Before them stretched the remainder of a perfect day, the coming Festival nights, celebrations of this season, and then the next, circling into a lifetime… together. A lazy autumn afternoon, with the garden and smial well-tended twice over while Frodo had been away; pumpkins carved, delivered, and awaiting judging.

And best, Frodo home, and here in his arms, content, and intent on something he was writing, spread over the lap desk balanced upon his crossed legs.

Sam leaned back against the apple tree, rubbing Frodo’s back gently as he gazed past him to the sunny orchard. Wasps droned over the few fallen apples remaining on the ground and a breeze rustled through tall grasses gone to seed. They had found peace in the dappled shade beneath their tree; around them lay their waistcoats and blankets, rumpled earlier in love play; the scattered leftovers from their picnic, with grapes, cheese, biscuits, and toasted nuts for filling up corners; a half-empty green bottle and crisp wine in sturdy mugs.

Frodo settled more comfortably between Sam’s thighs, and placed his lap desk upon his crossed legs.

“Sam, a good long walk is surprisingly helpful for composing poems, at least in one’s mind. All that time to think… Of course, thinking about you, and us, was especially inspiring, and provided plenty of distraction as I travelled. And while I was there…” Frodo’s bright smile faded.

“And you did need some, I’ll warrant.” Sam took Frodo’s hand and squeezed lightly. “Time enough to talk of that later, unless you want to now?”

“No. Not now.” Frodo gave a quick shake of his head, and was silent for a while, his eyes darkening and brow creasing to a frown. “It will help to talk to you, Sam. But for now, let us have this day for rest. I doubt that you have slept any better than I, while we have been apart, and certainly not much since my homecoming!”

“I can't say I'd mind… though there are other pleasures besides sleep!” Sam winked, but could not hold back his yawn as Frodo grinned and turned back to his writing.

Sam watched drowsily as Frodo's quill moved rapidly across the page, making an adjustment here, a note in the margin, there. When it came to words – for that matter, with anything that mattered to him – Frodo took great care with every one, and so he had explained.

“Sam, the _meaning_ is so very clear in my memory and imagination, but I struggle to make the words say what I mean. A change in balance, here, reversing those two lines – but that would make the rhyme and rhythm need a parallel change there; does this alliteration express sensuousness, or is it too forced? Another tweak here, and reinsert the action, just so…”

Frodo brushed the stiff goose quill over his cheek, his head downcast as he looked critically at his poem. His lips moved as he read under his breath, too softly for Sam to hear. He dipped the quill, wrote something else, and then he turned to Sam.

“I think it is close. Would you read it, please? I would like your thoughts on it.”

“Aye, love, though I don’t know as I’ll be much help, other than enjoying it.” Sam leaned forward to peer over Frodo’s shoulder and read the flowing lines, their ink shiny and wet as Frodo lifted his quill from the page.

_**Between the Lines**_

_Between the lines our love shall flow,_  
As water to the Sea,  
Around, about, above, below:  
Returning home to me. 

_He flows as ink into my arms,_  
Brushing gracefully,  
Swift sure strokes upon the page,  
In lithe calligraphy. 

_Between the lines, our love is read_  
In flowing rhythms, rhymed in bed,  
In sinewed verses, woven prose,  
Entwined, embraced, and layered close. 

_No lines can bound a boundless love,_  
Beyond what words can tell.  
Its meaning shines through every move,  
Illuminating well 

_This manuscript of trembling flesh –_  
Five lines splayed here to spell  
Desire with knowing, urgent touch,  
Inspiring rise and swell – 

_Deft hands inscribe my soul with light,_  
Lift us, as one, to soaring height  
With words – kissed couplets that delight –  
Made flesh, enflaming kindled night – 

_And every word that needs be said,_  
Engraved by caress upon skin,  
Lettered in fire and sweet desire,  
Glows deep and forever within.  


“Frodo. I think – I don’t know how you do it, love.”

“Do you like it?” Frodo looked over his shoulder, his eyes shining bright with hope, and pressed a soft kiss to Sam’s cheek, even as he wafted his hand over the ink, encouraging it to dry.

“Mmmm… yes, I like it, very much. And this, even better…” Sam sought Frodo’s lips, warm as summer wine, his breath fresh as crisp apples.

‘Oh, yes… _much_ better! But they are alike, are they not? I mean, the poem, the kiss… all of it…” Frodo’s smile firmed beneath Sam’s lips, and a stroke of his tongue made very clear what _all of it_ included.

“From you, they are. What you write _about_ it is as tender as your touch upon me, and when I read, your words reach into me so that I _feel_ what you are saying - so _very_ well! And I remember every single touch and taste and sigh you’re telling with them pretty words, but the _sounds_ that you made were – well, pretty’s not the word for them, though there’s naught better I can think of.”

“I think that _yours_ were – and probably harder to spell!"…” Frodo laid his head back upon Sam’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Try as I might, there is something about words that removes what I try to say from what it was. What it is, between us. If I could, I would write those other sounds, especially yours, my love. But on the parchment, their music fades, and I can only write about them.”

“And you do, beautifully. I love your poem. It takes me back to what we _did_ – and it makes me want to do every bit of it again!”

Frodo laughed. “Now, there, love, is all the proof I could want – I must have captured at least something of it! Just let me set this aside…” With a glance to assure that the ink had dried enough not to smear or run, he secured his quill, pushed the stopper in his inkwell, and set his lap desk aside on the blanket. With a sigh, he leaned back in Sam’s arms and laid his head on his shoulder.

“Yes, this is just what I had in mind…” Frodo stretched out his legs and tangled his toes, tickling, through the curls on one of Sam’s feet. “You know you do indulge me, Sam. I am the most fortunate hobbit in the Shire. Petted, pampered, and plump.”

“Indulge? No! Why would I do that?” Sam traced the line of Frodo’s throat down to the hollow at its base; the pulse beat strong and fast beneath his fingertips. “Hmm?”

“You do. Indulge, flatter, spoil. But do not stop… nor that, either…” Frodo laid his hand over Sam’s as it meandered, slow-circling over his chest, to slip beneath his opened shirt, and lower, over the curve of belly, tracing the fine line of fur down, kneading beneath the wool and linen loose at his waist.

“See? Plumper already, for you have plied me with all my favourites since my return.” Frodo sighed, and his hands echoed Sam’s every caress with gentle strokes to Sam’s arms, holding him close, and to thighs, wrapped around his hips. “Yes… ohhh… keep doing that, and we will love again, sooner than this old hobbit had dared to hope!”

“That we will.” Sam hugged Frodo tightly, eliciting a small _whuff_ of surprise, and pressed a tender kiss to the back his head: to hair scented with rosemary, and faintly damp at the nape from their earlier loving in the orchard’s drowsy warmth. His body was all dappled light and shade as an indolent breeze wandered through the leaves above, scattering bright sunlight and lifting his curls to tickle Sam’s chin and cheek. Shadows lay in the hollow of his throat, the curve of his hip, the folds of his trousers, where Sam’s hand curved tenderly over what had trembled in sunlight beneath his longing touch. He buried his face in soft hair, softer skin, and closed his eyes.

His Frodo, here, and now –happy in his arms, his warm weight pressing Sam to the gnarled tree, his hips pressed close to Sam’s – Sam inhaled sharply, almost a gasp, and knew that Frodo must feel what had risen hard and sudden, beseeching against him.

“Sam?” Frodo twisted in Sam’s arms to see his face, cupping his chin in one hand. “Oh, Sam, I know. Oh, my dearest love.” Frodo tasted of grapes and white wine; he wrapped his arms around Sam, and with gentle kisses and lithe strength he laid him back to the blanket, pressing himself to Sam’s hardness. “Let me, my love…”

“Frodo. Oh, yes…“ Sam groaned with unexpected need as Frodo reached between them. A rustle of fabric, and Frodo’s warm lips were gone – and caresses flowed downward over Sam’s chest, belly, and then, oh, then, his lips… giving the most intimate of kisses, up and down, then around so sweetly, murmuring love, suckling every urgent desire from him, until–

“Oh, love! Ohh!”

Gradually awareness returned. Light and shadow above… tangled curls and the curve of Frodo’s head beneath his hand… the weight of Frodo’s head resting in the crook of his hip; soft puffs of breath, cool over damp, sated flesh. Frodo’s breathing was as deep and even as his own, and Sam realised that they must have drowsed for a time.

“Sleeping, love?” Sam whispered, and stroked through the curls, pushed them back from Frodo’s brow. He could feel Frodo’s smile in the tightening of his cheek and lips against tender skin. He shook his head.

“Mmmm. No… not quite. Just thinking about you, and the poem.”

“Thinking! Do you see what your poem does to me?” Sam gripped Frodo’s shoulders and pulled him, compliant, to lie across his chest. “Thinking!”

“Yes, Sam. I did… see…” Frodo braced himself on one arm, stretched to reach their mugs of wine; he passed Sam's to him, and they each took a long draught. “Quite well.”

“ _Thinking_! And I suppose you were writing poetry while you were doing _that_!”

“Well, I did say they were much alike, did I not?” A quick kiss, scented now of musk and sweat and loving – and Frodo’s eyes creased with merriment.

“That you did, love, and showed it, as well!” Sam hesitated, struck by sudden curiosity. “Frodo? Were you _really_ writing then?”

“My love, you were far too distracting! But in a way, I was – as I have been every minute of every day since we met. Our story is inspiration, in my heart, my blood, my every thought. In truth, there is always a part of me that is moving the action toward word, even in our most impassioned moments. Even as I taste your seed, it grows within me, merging with who I am and who I am meant to be… becoming our tale, our own poem. It is not that I am not there with you, for you, loving _you_ , or that I am _thinking_ on it at that moment… Do you understand? Is it like that for you?”

“I think so.” Sam was quiet for a moment, and he twined his fingers absently in the springy curls brushing Frodo’s shoulders. “Yes. I _do_ understand. The writing's as much a part of you as the garden and orchard are of me. The growing, the pruning, the care. You’re in every season, no matter what I’m doing. Every flower, every fruit, every seed. Though I can’t say I _enjoy_ any seed quite so much as yours… nor the planting.” Sam’s smile held both promise and question. “Dearest… you didn’t… would you like…?

“I would, always… soon, but not quite yet. _Old_ hobbit, remember?”

Denial flashed in Sam’s eyes, and Frodo corrected the teasing joke between them. “Perhaps… can we say, _very well loved and needs some time to catch his breath_?”

“That we can, and I’m glad to hear it. Soon it will be, me dear.” A quick hug, another kiss, and Frodo rolled off Sam to lie at his side. He reached to straighten Sam’s linens and trousers, bent a tender kiss to softened flesh before fastening the buttons, then met Sam’s gaze.

“So. You said you do not know how I do it – but you could write poems, too. Our story is written as deeply within you as in me, though it is through your gardening that you tell it. Hmmm… I rather like the idea of you making a poem for me! A poem, in exchange for my help in the garden? We would not want it left entirely to my tending, but I would do whatever you say… anything. Will you rise to that challenge, dearest? Before you rise to the far more interesting one I will require of you… _soon_.”

“Frodo-love, I’d rise to _any_ challenge, with you by my side. But you’d best _be_ by my side for this one. Inspiration, you know.”

“I will be right here, revising my draft, a word or two here and there.” Frodo reached across Sam to pull his lap desk closer. Flipping the hinged lid open, he withdrew another quill and a sheet of parchment and handed them to Sam.

Sam held up the paper and quill as though he’d never before seen either. “I’m remembering some hefty tasks coming up. Roses need a trim soon as it freezes, and there's several new apple saplings to plant, not to mention that fine tree you brought home with you… Big holes to be dug. Oh, and a few hundred daffies as need their bulbs scattering and then planting. Hard work, that, and harder on your knees. Are you _sure_ you want me to do this?”

“I do! And I am yours, for any task you set me. Hands and knees? Yes, Sam. On my knees, for _whatever_ you would have of me…” Frodo managed somehow to appear demure as he stretched out on his belly and propped his chin on his hands. “Use the desk, dear; I will not need it.” With an airy gesture flourished towards the desk, Frodo turned to his page; he maintained a straight face, but the corners of his lips twitched.

Sam could only shake his head, grinning.

“Thank you. Can’t say I’ll _mind_ your help…"

Frodo's smile was as much encouragement as his promised help as Sam shifted backwards to brace himself against the tree trunk. He lifted the desk onto his legs, and set himself to his task. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so difficult, after all. And it certainly wouldn’t be unpleasant to be thinking on the kinds of things he’d like to write. Why, those weren’t any different than what he’d been thinking on these last weeks, anyway. He flexed his fingers – he could certainly feel what he’d like to write, right there –

Best try something more straightforward. Maybe one of the country songs he liked to hum while he worked? Put it with something from the tales Frodo read to him, or maybe the ones about Mr. Bilbo's his uncle’s travels… Yes, there it was. And it might even turn out to be quite funny. Sam bent to his task. He used the quill to tap out his rhythm silently on the desktop, wrote a word or two, more tapping – a scratch through here, a re-write there - and then a steady advance with a wrong turning only now and then.

Finally, he stretched, and looked at it critically. A bit messy, maybe, with the changes and rethinks and lines running away from him and off at the edges, but at least he could read it - and he _thought_ that it might please.

_‘Troll sat alone on his seat of stone…_  
Up came Tom with his big boots on,  
Said he to Troll: ‘Pray, what is yon?”  
For it looks like the shin o’ my nuncle Tim,  
As should be a-lyin in graveyard.  
Caveyard! Paveyard!  
This many a year has Tim been gone,  
And I thought he were lyin’ in graveyard…’*  


A silly little thing, o'course, but its lightness about bones and graveyards would be a welcome contrast, like the jolly carved pumpkins, to tonight’s Wilding and solemn Reaper. It would amuse him, and that slow smile would blossom on his face…

Sam looked over to Frodo. He had laid his head down upon one arm, and his quill rested loosely within ink-stained fingers. His eyes had drifted closed, and as Sam watched, the dark feather fell unnoticed from his hand. Ah, well, this old blanket had its share of inkstains, and sleep was what Frodo needed right then. Neither of them had managed nearly enough of it since his return, though what they had given each other instead had been needed far more.

The afternoon was warm, but the chill of the night lingered in the ground, and Frodo was only half-dressed still, with his shirt unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up, his trousers loosened, low on his hips. Sam set aside his quill and paper, gathered the edge of the blanket, and pulled it over him.

Frodo sighed, shifted, and rolled from his belly to his back, graceful even in slumber. Leaf-patterned sunlight dazzled on white linen pulled open over his breast, danced rosy pink on cheeks, caressed his fair face. He looked peaceful, and beautiful, and Sam loved him so much he thought his heart might burst.

Time enough to write, to garden, to do all that they were meant to do; time enough for loving, and time now to hold his Frodo close, to treasure him with all that he had.

Sam knelt by Frodo’s side; a twig cracked beneath his knee as he shifted to lie beside him. So deeply asleep had Frodo fallen that he did not stir as Sam took him gently into his arms, cradled him close, and kissed his brow.

~***~

_Hold fast._

_Don’t let loose. Not ever. Not yet._

_Steady, Samwise…_

Sleeping, sweetly sleeping… Sam knelt by Frodo’s side, gathered him in his arms, and pressed a kiss to chill brow, to pliant lips – soft, in memory; soft still, despite all. But impassive, as they never had been before. No welcoming sigh. No slow spreading smile. No breath of life returning his own. Not asleep…

An edge of rock bit sharp into Sam’s knee. What did it matter?

_‘Seeds of the past for seed for the future…_  
joy in the planting…  
and all those… to come… to come…’  


No seed, parched or plump, would ever grow from this barren, ashen soil. There could be no planting to come.  
‘  


_‘…should be lyin’ in graveyard…’_  


Towering rock was cruel cover for what should be cradled by living roots beneath ancient oak. Bleak stone would never remember what should be etched fine and flowing in blackest ink upon his family’s tree.

_Outside the circle there is only death._

_Without ritual, there is only death._

_No dance, no dancers._

_Only death._

Death came for everyone, sometime; Frodo had long since made it clear that he expected it for himself, and feared it for Sam. But like this? Not like this… not while he still had will to try, to do… to endure.

Patiently, Sam teased the webbed snarls from Frodo’s hair. After rage and black despair, he had all the time in the world, here, outside of any time that mattered. He lifted Frodo’s hands and kissed each palm; he pushed back his frayed cuffs and pressed his fingers to the dreadful stillness at his wrists. He had seen the signs of death set upon his beloved's living flesh… waiting to share the burden of grief, and then to return to the Dance. Together. But ritual was as broken now as the shards beneath his knees. He rubbed ashen grime from Frodo’s pale hands, touched a single fingerprint to the fragile trace of blue on his wrists, then scratched the ash sharp as a knife across his own. Would his empty life bleed and drain upon bitter rock where it had been lost with his love?

Here was no one to tell a grief too great to bear alone.

No one to tell, no one to speak for a beloved life well lived. And there would be no one, ever… unless… No, he could never manage to say all that he knew and loved of what he held close in his arms for now, for always, till he must let loose, if only to follow…

But if he had learned anything at all from their suffering, day after day after day, it was endurance. Past hope— believing it would come to this – yet enduring so much… so very much, despite…

Every breath hurt, and his throat was raw, but from some remnant of their Shire, carried for Frodo for so long, from the shards of a shattered heart, Sam spoke, and the ritual words echoed through sullen air from cliff to crag.

“I am Samwise Gamgee… and I have come to tell… to share… to speak… the death… of Frodo Baggins. My Master. My love. My only love…”

The ritual words echoed through sullen air from cliff to crag, faded to silence. No one to hear, no one to share… No one to help bear the unbearable. As Frodo had done, every day doing what he must... As Sam had helped him to do…

Sam heard again Frodo's words.

_‘I will take…’_

He had taken it, and had borne it so very long, and so far from their Shire. To Mordor… He had done all that he said he would do, and in the doing, he had given— _everything_.

_'Sacrifice are you, and ever shall you be.’_

"I will bear this grief, for him. I will try as he tried, though I too die in the trying."

For love, my love.

For _you_ …

The Quest.

 

_Finis_  


* Author’s Note: Sam’s poem is excerpted from ‘Flight from the Ford,’ _The Fellowship of the Ring_ , by J.R.R.Tolkien.


End file.
